


Nostos

by diesis



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Mythology References, Odyssey, Post Season 8, r/jaimebrienne
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:48:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25242658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diesis/pseuds/diesis
Summary: A young girl on a shore meets an old, wrecked man. Loosely based on the meeting between Odysseus and Nausicaa in Homer's Odyssey.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 20
Kudos: 81
Collections: Jaime and Brienne Subreddit Fan Creation Challenges





	1. The shoreline - Nausicaa

  
Sometimes it's not easy being her mother's daughter - that's what Alysanne thinks while she stands on the shore, the waves of the Narrow Sea caressing her feet. Sometimes it's not easy, not just for the build she inherited from Mother, that makes her tower one head above all the girls of her own age, taller than many adults as well. It's not a matter of love - the foam remains between her toes when the water retreats, like pearls, like teardrops. Alysanne knows that Mother loves her deeply and unconditionally. But even love is not easy, and Mother's love can be suffocating, sometimes. She keeps on treating Alysanne like a child, and she's not a child anymore: she's almost twelve, almost a woman - every morning since her last nameday she's been inspecting her night clothes and the sheets of the bed, waiting for her blood to come, for her body to flower like the red roses of the garden.  
"Don't be so eager to grow up, sweetheart", Mother would say. "I'm already grown up", she would answer, defiantly. And then Mother would put on her sorrowful face, the one she has so often, and scroll her head, and stay silent for hours.  
"Don't lose your time practicing with the sword, I did the same mistake and what good has come from that?"  
"Don't trust a guy just because he's charming or has a pretty face."  
Don't, don't, don't, she's fed up with Mother's don'ts, and with her caution. She's fed up with Mother's sadness, above all. That's why Alysanne hates it, when the Hand of the King comes to their island: the man has the power of saddening Mother with his mere presence. He's a dwarf, and yet he can make Mother uncomfortable more than any opponent she's ever faced in a battle. 

When she was a little girl, Alysanne had wondered if Lord Tyrion could be her father, the man who left Mother alone and pregnant after the War. Now she knows for sure he isn't, but the Hand is well aware of who her father is. Who her father _was_.   
Alysanne doesn't dare to ask him directly, because it would mean to admit she's eavesdropped all his meetings with Mother in the last two years, hiding in the passage between Mother's chambers and the private solar.  
" _You_ are the one who sent his body to Asshai!" Mother yelled at him during his last visit, three moons ago.  
"And I've never had an answer by the woman I sent it to. As far as I know, the smugglers that took him might as well have thrown his corpse into the sea."  
"You didn't ask my opinion then. And I'm not asking your opinion now."  
"But..." Lord Tyrion tried to speak again.  
"No. And since His Grace legitimated Alysanne the day she was born, I already have an heir. So I don't need an husband."  
"Brienne, it's been more than ten years ago."  
"It's _Ser_ Brienne, thank you very much. And it's been twelve years and five moons."  
"How many days?" The dwarf joked.  
Whatever event Mother had been counting from, the silence - that filled the room and spread through the wooden panel - told Alysanne that Mother _did_ count the days.  
"At least consider meeting some of the lords I talked about..."  
No one has ever been so insistent with Mother about getting married as much as Lord Tyrion, not even Grandfather when he was still alive.  
Alysanne is not a child anymore, she's heard the rumours about the Hand of the King, she knows that probably he has some hidden motive. Maybe he promised a title to some hedge knight he met in a brothel. Maybe he tries to pacificate a political issue on the mainland by marrying away some ambitious young lord. Maybe he feels guilty for something that happened during the War, maybe he wronged Mother somehow, and finding her an husband is his twisted way to make amends.  
"Why should I meet them? To hear their praises of my beauty?" Mother retorted.   
Lord Tyrion suddenly changed the topic.  
"I've been told that Alysanne loves fencing, it must be a family trait..."  
"Leave my daughter out of this." Mother stopped him brusquely.  
"You could have a tournament for Alysanne's twelfth nameday, three moons from now. Your suitors can prove their value then."  
Mother took her time to answer, and when she talked, Alysanne sensed again her sarcasm. "It's an intriguing idea, my lord. Perhaps they'll impress me..."  
"Is that a deal?"  
"Deal."  
They went on for a while, planning some details about the organisation of the tourney. The Hand was about to leave when Mother called in one of the servants, and sent her to summon Tarth's most renowned blacksmith.  
Alysanne could picture Lord Tyrion's expression from behind the closed door, his smug smile draining away from his face.  
"You won't compete, will you?" Lord Tyrion asked, concerned.  
"Oh, of course I will."

That is how they ended up with the big tournament that will start in a few days.  
It wouldn't be that bad, Alysanne thinks, walking slowly on the shoreline, watching the sea, the sunshine, the horizon. But it's not easy being Mother's daughter, especially when they talk about feelings. They both are totally unable to talk about feelings, and Mother is even worse than her.   
So, this morning they've had one of their arguments.   
Evenfall Hall is bursting with the preparation, the city and the harbour are filled with ships, tents, lords, knights, young knights, young and very handsome knights. Alysanne let slip that maybe she could find a good match among them. And Mother got mad and harangued her. And Alysanne told her that if she doesn't want an husband that's her loss, every other woman wants it. And Mother warned her that a marriage is just a contract and has nothing to do with love. And Alysanne shouted that if Father - whoever he was - had really loved her, he would have married her instead of leaving her disgraced with a bastard child. And then Mother slapped her (Alysanne can count on the fingers of one hand the times Mother has slapped her in her whole life), and sent her away commanding that she went to the river's mouth with the servants to help them washing the linen for their guests, while she reflected on how insolent she'd been to her Lady Mother and to His Grace the King of the Six Kingdoms, who had granted her a family name and a respectable lineage.  
Alysanne left the room slamming the door.  
She followed the older women silently, and silently fulfilled her task washing, rubbing, rinsing off the lye into the water of the river. When the servants went back to the castle, she remained with Thalia and the other maids, and they came to the beach to play.

Alysanne stands on the shore, while her friends toss each other a ball. When they go out on their own, they take some wooden swords, covertly, and pretend to be the great women who fought in the War. Thalia - that's small and smart and lithe - acts the part of Arya Stark. Geena plays a wildling. Alysanne obviously impersonates Mother. Carin hates swordsfighting, but she enjoys chatting and cheering, so they usually say she's the Queen in the North.   
Today they couldn't bring the swords - the servants would have caught them - and Alysanne doesn't feel like playing or like talking about all those guys who arrived for the tournament from every corner of the Six Kingdoms, from the North, and some even from Essos.  
The cold water under her feet makes her feel better. But she keeps on thinking about Mother's words. If marriages have nothing to do with love, Alysanne says to herself while she bends over to pick up a little heart-shaped shell, maybe she doesn't want to get married, after all. She could become an heroine, find herself a lover, love him, and live with it.  
It's not easy being Mother's daughter, because sometimes Mother seems to know her better than Alysanne herself. And Mother knows that she doesn't care about an embroidered dress, about an opulent wedding feast, about becoming someone's Lady.   
Alysanne wants love, and love is not easy.   
It's like the sea, it's huge, it's wonderful and it's deathly dangerous. It can give you everything and take away everything - if you're born on an island you know it far too well.  
There has been a shipwreck just yesterday evening, a boat from Essos. Mother went out in the storm to lead the rescue party by the cliffs of the eastern coast, as soon as she'd been informed. She came back late in the night, and didn't sleep well - they found some alive ones, many dead ones, and more will resurface three days from now. Everybody said it's a bad omen for the tournament, and the Maester suggested that Mother doesn't take part in the jousting. And today they expect the ship of the Hand from King's Landing. So it's not the right time to try to apologise for the outburst of this morning, Alysanne knows she'd better wait until tomorrow.  
The undertow pushes some wooden planks on the waterfront. Geena comes near, raising her skirt above her knees (Alysanne's one is soaked, but she doesn't care).  
"Do you think they were from Pentos, Alys?" She asks nodding at the boards.  
"Don't know. Either Pentos or Myr. Perhaps they were coming for the tournament."  
Geena sighs, then touches the water seven times turning around. "Father Above, judge them justly" she whispers.  
"May the Stranger ferry them to a far sweet land." Alysanne adds. They know that no one prays the Stranger, but the shipwrecked have to face the most unknown places, deep down into the sea, so they always entrust them to the hooded God.  
"Thank the Gods the storm didn't hit today... you know, the royal ships will arrive in the afternoon. Do you think the King will come?"  
"No, Mother said we're just waiting for the Hand, some nobles and the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard."  
"Ooooohhh!" Geena shouts, clapping her hands and forgetting about the skirt. "Ser Podrick is soooo lovely!"  
"Geena!" Alysanne scolds her. "He's _old _!" (The truth is that uncle Pod is really lovely, but he's her uncle, not Geena's crush, for Heavens sake!)  
"So what? My father is much older than my mother, it's never been a problem..."  
"And he's in the Kingsguard." Alysanne points out, and regrets it immediately. Geena bites her tongue. The knights of the Kingsguard make a vow of celibacy, and that's why Mother was forced to leave her role as Lord Commander after a couple of months, when she discovered she was with child - even if Alysanne was conceived during the War.  
It's an awkward subject, and both the girls know it.  
So Alysanne turns and shouts to Thalia to pass her the ball.   
Thalia's throw is slow and easy to catch, but Alysanne tosses it back too vigorously, and the ball disappears behind the bushes that surround the beach.  
"Damn it, Alys!" Thalia yells, and rushes into the scrub to retrieve the toy, but then she yells again, and runs back with the face of someone who's seen a ghost. And the ghost follows her out of the brush, and they all start screaming.__

____

The girls pull back towards the sea, Alysanne doesn't follow them. There's a thick stick near her feet, she grabs it and gets ready to fight. But the man - it's a man, not a ghost - that emerges from the wood seems too messed up to be dangerous.  
He staggers on the sand, shielding his eyes from the light with his left hand, and Alysanne doesn't know if it's more embarrassing that he is naked or that he doesn't have the other hand, and tries to cover his nudity with a scarred stump. It's not the only scar, his whole body is full of marks - mostly old ones.   
She knows she shouldn't watch, and yet she does. He's covered in mud and salt, his white and blonde hair sticks on his forehead like a mane.   
As soon as he spots her, he falls to his knees. "Are you a goddess?" He asks, his voice barely louder than the lapping of the waves. "The Warrior, the Maiden?"  
"I'm a woman, Ser. You're still alive." She answers steadily. "Your ship sank during the storm." That's what must have happened, she thinks. The man sighs heavily and grimaces. "Some of the your mates are still alive, they've been rescued by my people." Alysanne adds, trying to comfort him.  
"May the Gods bless this land, where the men take pity on the shipwrecked and the girls stand tall as the pillars of a temple, white and golden, and are kind to the strangers..."  
Alysanne's heart skips a beat. No one ever complimented her like that - and not just because all the boys are silly and annoying. She's big and pale, and even though she's not ugly, she's not cute and dainty like the princesses they read of in the books. But now she doesn't care anymore because, oh, she can be mistaken for a goddess, she can be an inlaid ivory column. Maybe she could even be loved.   
It's just the delirium of an old sailor burnt by the sun, but it feels so good. She moves towards the man, that keeps on looking at her with a weird gaze. Alysanne would say it's some kind of wistfulness. His eyes look familiar, but it's just because they're as green as her own.  
"Where are we, my lady?", the man asks.  
"You landed on Tarth, Ser."  
Something in her words hits him like a punch, he groans and crumples, then leans his head against the ground and starts crying.  
She turns to her friends. "Let's help him", she commands.  
The four girls pick up the blanket they laid on the sand, put it on the man's shoulders, make him sit on a rock. They give him some water, and Carin's apron to cover himself.  
Slowly, his sobs stop. He keeps on watching them in an awe, like they were creatures from another world.  
"We take him to Evenfall Hall, Alys, or downtown? The other ones have been sheltered at the harbour." Geena says.  
"I'll go there on my own." He mutters, and tries to stand.   
Alysanne puts her hands on his shoulders to stop him, makes him sit again. "You'd better rest, Ser. We'll send the Maester here as soon as we're back in the keep, and he'll escort you to the city, to reunite with the other survivors."  
"No no" he begs "Don't leave me here alone! I'll come with you."  
Alysanne looks at the sea (that is blue and gorgeous and free), then follows with her eyes the trail that leads from the beach to the small city beneath the castle. She thinks about all the scandal mongers Mother had to face when she came back to the island, she thinks that she won't wait until tomorrow to tell her mum she's sorry for her own words.  
"You can't come with us, Ser. It's inconvenient that we go along with a stranger." She answers, in the end, solemnly. "But you are welcome on my island and I swear to the Old Gods and the New that you'll be safe here. We'll send you help in a little while."  
The man nods. "I trust you."  
They leave him a flask full of water and some fruits that Thalia picked from a tree nearby, then they say goodbye.   
When they've almost reached the path, the man shouts "My lady, I don't even know your name."  
"I'm Alysanne of Tarth, daughter of Lady Brienne, the Evenstar." She shouts back, waving her hand. 

____

They run on the trail, climbing to the top of the cliffs. From above, Alysanne turns again. The man is still there, sitting on the rock, staring at the sea. Suddenly, she realises she didn't ask _his _name. But she's too far, now, and her voice would be washed away by the sound of the waves.__

____


	2. A spouse's room - Penelope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She doesn't wait for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Loosely based on the Odyssey, this one's inspiration came from a scene that takes place as Odysseus eventually returns to Ithaca.  
> Daorys means "No one" in Valyrian (thank you, online translator!).

Brienne doesn't wait for him. She knows he isn't going to come back, she's known it since that very night in Winterfell, and he won't come back from any of the Seven Hells now, after twelve years and eight moons (and five days, damn you Tyrion Lannister).  
Tyrion told her about the sorceress in Asshai on the morning she begged the King to release her from her Kingsguard vows, because she had discovered the pregnancy. Back then, she couldn't feign joy or hope: she just remained speechless and breathless while a wave of conflicting feelings submerged her. But some years later, the first time Tyrion suggested that she got married, she had learned how to swim. "What if he comes back, eventually?", she asked. Tyrion's face fell, and Brienne suddenly knew she had found the perfect excuse.  
She doesn't wait for him, it's just a convenient way to save her freedom and her island, to stay out from the game that they keep on playing on the mainland.  
She doesn't wait for him, yet sometimes she thinks she's seen his face in the crowd. It usually is Alysanne, her eyes so similar to her father's ones - Brienne has learned to love her daughter's eyes even if they remind her so much of him and of his sister.   
But sometimes it's not Alys, and that glimpse of someone who isn't there makes her feel uneasy for hours.

Yesterday she's seen him during the funeral ceremony of those Tyroshi sailors: just a shadow out of the corner of her eye. It felt a dark cloud worse than any shipwreck.  
Anyway, after the accident five days ago, she had already agreed with the Maester that she isn't going to fight in the tourney.  
She does not believe in this kind of superstition, but her people do, and a good ruler knows when it's time to go along with the people's wishes.  
She finds it hard to believe in any kind of god either, after everything she's seen during the Great War, yet every day she enters the Sept, lights a candle and talks silently to seven sculptures that cannot listen her pleas.  
When she can't help thinking about him, she stands in front of the Stanger's effigy and prays for his troubled soul. Sometimes she wonders if the Red Lord's priests did actually resuscitate him. She imagines him in a small hut on the coast of the Jade Sea, living a modest and quiet life. She wishes he were at peace.  
At other times she looks for Selwyn's firmness, for his booming laughter and the gentle gaze that she misses so much, and her candle goes to the Father's altar.

Today she turns to the Mother (the mother she didn't have, the mother it's so hard to be).   
"One day you'll look at her and you'll find out she's already of marrying age", Selwyn used to say when Alysanne was a little girl. Now that day has come, and Brienne doesn't feel ready yet.  
Alys has changed so much, in the last moons. She's still green and turbulent and insufferable, but sometimes there is something else beneath the surface, a hint of the proud young lady she's going to be - and it scares her, because she could protect the child but she can't protect the woman.  
After their last quarrel, when they made up, she asked again about her father. Who is he?, where is he now?, she used to inquire when she was a child, and she had learned by heart Brienne's response: "He was a warrior who fought with me in the North, and died during the War. I can't tell you his name because he had many enemies, and some could still want to harm you if they knew you're his daughter."  
"Why did you love him?", she asked this time, and Brienne knew that she owed her an honest answer.  
"It's complicated." She said. And they agreed that they will talk about it after the tourney.  
So Brienne kneels inside the Sept, rehearsing her speech until the memories don't hurt her anymore, until she finds the right words to tell her daughter about Ser Jaime Lannister. 

There's where Ser Hassair, her Maester at arms, comes to fetch her, because the jousting is about to start and they still have some important issues to discuss.  
Alysanne and two of her closest counsellors await for them in the solar. Maester Glokus is conveniently entertaining the Hand of the King at the harbour, showing him their fishing fleet and talking about trade routes.  
Hassair is Thalia's father, and while they reach Brienne's rooms he tells her that the girls found one of the shipwrecked, an old maimed man, and that Thalia keeps on praising Alys' courage, and saying that it would be great if one day she could become her friend's Maester at arms, just like Hassair is Brienne's one.  
"Do you still let her practice with the sword?" Brienne asks. Hassair sighs. "What about Alysanne?" He retorts.  
In the solar, Leander and Finna check the names on a small parchment, while Alysanne is sprawled on a cushion. She springs to her feet when her mother arrives.  
Leander brings Brienne up to date about the suitors Tyrion sent to the tournament.  
There are two Dornish princes, a lord from Maidenpool and the second born of a wealthy family from the Reach.   
Tyrion proposed also two more men, who didn't come to Tarth on these days. The first one is Robyn Arryn, who has already broken up three betrothals and apparently aims to inherit the North, since Queen Sansa and her Wildling husband still haven't conceived an heir.   
And then there's Gendry Baratheon: just like her, the Warden of the East refuses resolutely to get married. Unlike her, he _does_ still wait.  
Then Finna gets the goods on the younger knights, and on some noble fosters and squires. Brienne can't help smiling when her informant mentions Lady Catelyn's nephew, who's squiring for one of his Frey cousins but wears a Tully fish - painted in black - on his coat.  
Alysanne listen intently. "Do I have to choose a betrothed among these knights?" She asks later, when they are alone, getting ready for the opening ceremony.  
"No, you don't. But you deserve to know their bloodline and their heritage. I only beg you to remember that one day you'll have to take my place here on Tarth, but..." Brienne answers, and is about to add that she won't oppose to any man who could make her daughter happy, but someone knocks at the door - it's Podrick, who came to escort them to the main dais and gets a crushing hug by Alys, before she runs ahead to the big clearing where they set up the field for the jousting, and leaves the adults behind, so they can talk about the last political affairs of the mainland. And the words remain unspoken.

\-----

A tournament can be utterly boring if you just have to stay on the sidelines to watch it happen. That's what Brienne has learned in the last four days, squirming on her bench and smiling politely at the competitors.  
The joust of the first day was won by Ser Oddon Terlain, her young suitor from the Reach (who was definitely more interested in the beautiful Pentoshi sorrel he received as prize than in Brienne herself). On the second day there was the archery - it was so tedious that in the afternoon she ended up sparring with Alysanne, Thalia and some of the squires in the small square beneath the keep. The summer breeze ruffled Alys' hair, the children laughed and ran around, while a small crowd gathered to watch them from the ramparts. It made her think so much of Winterfell that she almost heard his voice in the cheering that came from the walls.  
Yesterday they had the parade and then a horse race on the biggest shore of the island.  
Today there will be the melee, and finally this whole masquerade will be over. She'll praise Ser Terlain's skill and the Dornish dexterity with Tyrion, she'll ask some more time to think, and in the end she'll say she's going to wait another year. In the worst case, she'll sail to Storm's End to talk frankly with Lord Baratheon: if the King insists about a marriage, they can live like two widowed in the same house, and blame it on her age if they won't have children.  
Alysanne's shouts of encouragement follow the herald's signal, and the contestants enter the field.

On a bench close to her dais, Leander and Master Borris, the blacksmith, settle a bet after the third charge. "I'd never have thought he would have made it up to now!" The craftsman laughs, collecting his money.   
Brienne scans the dozen of warriors who are still on the field: Hassair, three men from Dorne, a northerner, two Essosi sellswords, two bannermen of Lord Gendry, a young knight of the Kingsguard, a man from the Westerlands and a huge soldier from the Vale. Then calls her counsellor and asks him who are they talking about.  
"That one." Leander points to one of the men from Essos. "The left-handed. He was on the ship from Tyrosh. If you saw him a week ago, You wouldn't have bet a single Dragon on him. He had to borrow his armour from Borris, because he lost his one in the shipwreck and came ashore naked as his nameday."  
"He seems quite in good shape, today." Brienne comments, while the sellsword easily defeats one of her Dornish suitors, and she reasons that Leander is very good at politics but doesn't understand a damn thing about fighting.  
"Quite cocky as well. You know, he told Borris that he'll pay him with the tourney prize." Leander adds, and turns to the blacksmith, that shakes a purse with his wager.  
"What's his name?"  
"He registered as Ser Daorys, from Volantis."  
No one, Brienne translates. He might as well be a faceless man, but the vibe she gets when she looks at him is different - dangerous, but not obscure.   
His fighting style is a bit old fashioned but superb, and she can't suppress a grin when he disarms her other suitor from Sunspear.  
On the other side of the field, Hassair is knocked out by Ser Senius, Podrick's comrade, and Brienne makes sure that the Maester tends to him immediately, and that Alys keeps Thalia from entering the field to assault Ser Senius - who is defeated by the Ashemark veteran after few minutes, anyway.  
When she climbs back onto the dais, there are just two competitors left: the Volantene knight and the massive one from The Eyrie, who is taller than Brienne and fights with a mace.   
Ser Daorys is not small either, but thinner, less strong yet much more deft. He dodges the mace like a tamer avoids a wild bear's claws.  
He deals a couple of good thrusts, while he tries to tire out his opponent, and when finally he attacks, he is relentless.   
He ventures a decisive lunge, but lets down his guard on the right side, and the other warrior manages to hit him on the head. It's a glancing blow, but the helm clangs dreadfully and Brienne gasps and starts.   
Daorys tries to steady himself, while the other knight takes a run-up. The Volantene totters, then ducks to the side and manages to throw his enemy off balance. He jumps on the other man's shoulders, blocking him down with his shield, and points the sword at his neck. The mace-bearer struggles, slams his fist on the ground three times, then gives up. The crowd roars, Ser Daorys helps the defeated to stand up, then picks up again the sword, comes forward and bows towards the main dais.

Brienne claps her hands, then gestures to the page to bring her the small case that contains the prize. She holds the small box, opens it and caresses the velvet wrapping. Putting it at stake hasn't been an easy decision, but this way they had plenty of competitors, and the entry fees will fill the island treasury for at least five years. It has been closed in the box like a relic for twelve years, anyway. Maybe this man will put it to good use.  
"Ser Daorys, from Volantis." She declares. "My congratulations. You fought well and you deserved your victory."   
The man bows again, sword and shield still in his hands.  
"Now, pick up your reward." Brienne clears her throat and goes on. "The other two pieces of this Valyrian steel blade adorn the hip of the Hand of the King and of the Queen in the North." Tyrion nods at her, patting the dagger at his belt. She closes the box, and gives it to the page, who starts climbing down the dais. "I was knighted with that sword, before it got destroyed during the battle of King's Landing." She adds, trying to conceal the emotion in her voice. "You can have it reforged as a shorter blade, but I won't judge if you decide to sell it instead. It's yours, now."  
The page has reached Ser Daorys on the field, and is ready to give him the case, but the sellsword stops him and tells him something that Brienne can't hear. The page announces that the man wants to ask her a question, Brienne nods.  
"Ser Brienne of Tarth," he says, his voice muffled by the helm "your reputation has reached as far as the furthest corners of Essos, and your gift has been priceless. I'm an old man, and a Valyrian steel weapon would be wasted on someone who is sick of fighting. In stead of this blade, I ask for your permission to remain here on Tarth, and to settle down wherever you consider appropriate."  
Brienne frowns. The demand is weird but not unreasonable. She looks at him intensely, and then she sees something that makes her blood boil: a blue and green ribbon on his swordsbelt. The ribbon she used this morning to tie Alysanne's braid - Brienne turns on her side and realises that the girl's hair are loose on her shoulders, and Alys is looking at the stranger in awe. She'll have to deal with her daughter later, but she has to deal with the man now. Whatever hidden goal he has, she can't let him groom Alysanne, not until she can wield a sword.  
"You say you heard about me, Ser. I suppose you've been told that in my youth I used to challenge my suitors to beat me in a sword fight."  
The impudent sellsword understands and stiffens. "So I hope you won't mind if I ask the same kind of thing from you, before I consent to your request."  
He bows, then lifts his sword in invitation. "As my lady commands." He answers scornfully.

Brienne dons her leathers and a breastplate, while Maester Glokus begs her not to take the field. She's deaf to his pleas, and in a few minutes she joins Ser Daorys in the arena.  
They circle around, studying each other, then Brienne charges. Thrust, parry, compared to Oathkeeper's voice the sound of the tourney swords seems dull, but it plays a dance all the same, and the Essosi is definitely a good dancer. He holds his own, when they cross their blades close to their bodies she can feel his laboured breathing beneath the visor.   
Brienne hasn't fought for months, but Ser Daorys is tired by the melee and is actually old, surely older than she - she can tell it by some details she missed from the distance, the way he moves his right knee, the posture of his shoulders. Yet he's skilful and impetuous, and she doubts she could have beaten him in his prime.  
If not for Alysanne's favour, she might consider his demands. She might even like him, she thinks, admiring his moves and striving to block his sword. She hasn't had such a thrilling fight in years - it reminds somehow _their_ duel by the bridge, a lifetime ago, she thinks as she glares at him, and a snort inside the helm gives away his smirking.

Then, on the umpteenth attack, he shifts a bit too much, and she throws off his shield with a kick. The shield falls on the ground with the straps that secured it to Daorys' right arm. And said arm lacks the hand.  
Brienne petrifies. She watches her own hand and suddenly realises that it doesn't hold the hilt anymore: he seized the moment and sent her sword flying. The blunted tip of his blade is pointed at her chest.  
"Yield." He sighs - like he used to sigh her name, and suddenly all she can think about is that she's never made love again after the night he left her.   
She can't even open her mouth to answer, because he stumbles and passes out, a little rivulet of blood comes out from his helm.   
The mace, she thinks, and doesn't have the nerve to feel his pulse while she yells for help.

\-----

The man who beat her on the field three days ago now stands in front of her, cleaned up and dressed in some old clothes that Hassair lent him. Glokus healed his wound easily and ordered him to rest for a couple of days. She didn't visit him, she knows he talked with Tyrion yesterday, though.  
He stands in front of her while she sits in an uncomfortable chair in her solar, and perhaps he is Jaime Lannister, perhaps he isn't. Brienne tries to recall exactly his face and she finds out that she can't. Did he have that dimple? He certainly didn't have all those scars. His jawline looks different - but the Red Keep collapse could break a Valyrian steel sword, and she can't imagine what damage it caused to his bones. His eyes, oh, his eyes. The shape and the colour are the same, but something is missing (yet she remembers that once, in Winterfell, she heard Beric Dondarrion saying he lost himself a bit more every time he got revived).  
It could be another one of Tyrion's machinations, anyway.  
This evening, before the meeting with Ser Daorys, she dismissed all her servants, but she's sure that Alys is hiding in the passage as usual, and everything she might ask him to prove his identity is far too intimate for a child to hear. 

"Ser Daorys," she greets him, and immediately senses his disappointment.  
"Ser Brienne." He replies sombrely.  
"Maester Glokus said you recovered swiftly."  
"Aye, I did."   
"You fought wearing my daughter's favour."  
"Alysanne." He smiles. "You named her after your sister."  
Should I have named her after yours?, she thinks, but she holds her tongue.  
"I hadn't been told you knew her."  
"In fact, she found me after the shipwreck. She helped me and sent your servants to rescue me."  
"Oh well, that explains a lot."  
"She's amazing." He adds. "After all, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree."  
Brienne smiles in turn. She bets Alys is gloating behind the door.  
Then a memory comes back to her mind: there's something that - outside of her family - no one but Jaime knows.

 _"We have a Weirwood tree inside the keep at Evenfall Hall." She said.  
They were talking about Weirwood trees. They were talking about getting married in front of one of those trees, actually (in hindsight, she's astonished at how hopeful and naive she'd been).  
"Do you mean in the garden?"  
"No, no, it is inside a room of the castle."  
He laughed and kissed the palm of her hand.  
"Did you hang a swing on it when you were a child?", he joked, kissing her wrist and then her forearm and then the inside of her elbow, where he had found out she was very ticklish.  
"I couldn't hang anything on it", she answered trying to push him away, "because its trunk has been sawn hundreds of years ago, by my ancestors, when they erected the building."  
"Did you just say _erected _, my lady?" He said naughtily, rubbing himself against her.  
"Oh, shut up!"   
"Make me." He kissed her again.  
"Someone carved a bed in its roots." She went on.  
"Smart idea."  
"Smart?"  
"This way, the bed can't move in the slightest..." He explained, turning inside their small cot: the wooden slats creacked, he smiled.  
"It was my parents' bed." The smirk disappeared from his face.  
"Was? Doesn't your father still sleep in it?"  
"Not anymore. Never again after my mother's death. It's a spouse's room, he says. We use it as guest room, now..."  
"Will you sleep in that bed, when you'll go back home?", he asked.  
She kissed him in answer._

"About your request..."  
"My lady..."  
"I can accept it, but I'll need some more time to find you a proper accommodation. Meanwhile, you can remain here in the castle. The guest room is in the northern wing, but if you prefer to sleep in the southern wing, overlooking the sea, we can move the bed there..."  
"You've got to be kidding me." He blurts. "Do you intend to uproot the bed?"   
Brienne sighs, lowers her eyes, swallows a tear. When she looks again, he's still there.  
"Do you intend to stay, this time?" She asks. He grins, it's a sad smile, but his face lights up.  
"I do, if you'll have me."  
They remain silent for a while, holding each other's gaze.   
"Do you have anything else to say, after all this time?" She asks, eventually.  
"Words are wind, my lady. I could make the most moving speech in the world, and still it wouldn't erase what I've done to you. That's why I asked you to let me live on your island: I'll need a lifetime to make amends."  
Brienne bites her lower lip. She closes her eyelids, opens them again, and he's still there - he came closer, if they both reach out they could touch each other. She thinks back to the tent in Riverrun. She stands up abruptly, turns his back to him, makes it for the door.   
"Brienne!" He shouts, running after her.  
She stops her fingers on the handle.  
"Since that bed can't be taken out of the room, someone must guide you there." She explains, opening the door.

\-----

The night is peaceful and crisp. In the wood that stretches out on the northern side of the keep, a little owl sings intermittently, and in the distance she can hear the sound of the sea. For the tournament, they had the guest room prepared for the Hand of the King, but Tyrion showed up with _two_ charming companions from the Street of Silk, and Brienne decided to put the three of them in a bigger chamber. This one is quite small, indeed, the big white bed takes up the most of it.

She enters and places the torch in a support on the wall. He follows her. When she closes the door and unbuckles her swordbelt, his eyes widen. She places Oathkeeper on the floor, at the foot of the bed. Both the footboard and the headboard are sculpted and decorated with enamelled insets: blue circles at the bottom, red rhombuses at the top - the waves of the sea, the leaves of the tree. The diamond-shaped inlays look like rubies in the dim light. He caresses them, hesitantly, then lifts his hand to cup her cheek.   
He cries while they kiss, "I love you", he repeats, like a prayer, like an apology. She doesn't speak - she takes him in, she lets him in, there will be time for words.   
They stumble on the mattress half dressed, eager and clumsy like two newlyweds. The bed doesn't move in the slightest.   
There will be time. 

Later, when he falls asleep, Brienne sits and watches him.   
Tomorrow she'll have to talk to Alysanne. And to her council, and to Tyrion, perhaps. She'll spend the next weeks asking him about these twelve years (and eight moons, and eleven days).   
She didn't wait for him, and yet here he is, so now she just needs to breathe and to watch him sleeping.

She takes off her blouse, lies down at his side. He keeps on snoring lightly.  
When she dares to touch him again, after a while, her hands are shaking. His skin is rough and wrinkled and warm. Alive. She hugs him, he moves in his sleep and settles inside her embrace. It feels familiar, as if they had done it every night for years, as if their bodies remembered something their minds have forgotten - just like the wood of the bed recalls the shape of the tree it has been carved from.  
"Jaime." She whispers. He mumbles her name in answer.   
She hugs him more tightly, and closes her eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I edited this chapter, adding a paragraph I had discarded at first. I hope you like it anyway.


End file.
